Page 47 of The Billionaire Who Saved My Cat From The Mafia

Frankie

I’m still laughing.

It’s been a minute since I dropped the butter knife and nearly choked, but I can’t seem to stop giggling.

Finally, I take a deep breath and get some words out.“Special K?Like the cereal?”

“Like the cereal, but notin honorof the cereal.There’s a difference.”

“Oh, I gotta hear this.I mean, if your nickname was Bruiser or Chewbacca, or He-Man, I would understand.But a breakfast cereal?Mind if I keep eating?”

MacLaine’s faint smile indicates that he’d be okay with any of those other nicknames.“Please do,” he says.“I’m glad the food won’t go to waste.You just enjoy your tasting menu while I tell you about how I got my nickname.”

“Did you pack all this up for me?”

“My Aunt Phyllis did.She’s my uncle’s widow.When he died, she stayed on as kind of a den mother to all of us.”

He’s right—it would be a shame for this to go to waste since it’s out-of-this-world delicious.“My compliments to the chef,” I tell him.“And the delivery guy’s not so bad, either.So, go on.Tell me your origin story.”

It’s dark outside by now, and it’s growing chilly.I watch MacLaine—Special K MacLaine—hold Pussy close while tossing two more logs on the campfire.My cat seems perfectly content just to hang out in his arms or snuggle in his lap.

Seriously—it’s the damndest thing.

“I’m the youngest of the family,” he says, scratching Pussy behind her ears.For a man who claims he’s not a fan of cats, he sure has a way with one cat in particular.“I have four older brothers.I was unexpected.”

“An accident, then.”

“More of a surprise.”

“Got it.You were ahappyaccident.”

“Exactly.”He removes his cowboy hat and sets it on the log near his chair.Then he ruffles up his curls.MacLaine cuts quite a figure in the firelight.Relaxed and handsome.Powerful shoulders and arms.Long, long legs.

And completely in his element here in the dark wilderness.

I’m glad one of us is.

“I’m the only blond in a sea of black-haired sons.My mother started calling me her “special surprise” pretty soon after I was born.”

“Ah,” Frankie says.“So, zero cereal connection.”

“Zero,” he says.

He keeps talking.He talks and talks.There’s so much talking going on that I can barely get a word in.The man keeps unraveling facts for me, like he wants me to know everything about his world, his life.

Like he needs me to know who he is.

He tells me all about Yosemite Ranch—the history, the staff, their business goals, and how they’ve become well known for their pasture-raised luxury beef with its distinctive marbling.I’ve never even heard the termluxury beefbefore.

“We’re known for our American Wagyu.We supply many of the finest restaurants in Las Vegas and all along the West Coast.”

I swallow my mouthful of green beans.“Wait.I love that stuff.I’ve ordered it a few times in Vegas.”

“So, you live in Las Vegas.”

I shouldn’t have said that.“I did, yes.”

“Not anymore?”